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Saturday, December 13, 2014

Thinking of Holland, I see broad rivers ever-flowing towards the sea. I hear the low rumble of a Humber barge beating a hasty retreat to the sea, or the rattle of a tram trundling over the points at a junction. I feel the brisk February air tingling against my frozen white skin.

It's October 2013 and I find myself in Rotterdam, without any students. My girlfriend, perhaps seeing that I need to practice my Dutch, decided to book a semi-surprise trip to Rotterdam, a place she's heard a lot about, but never actually visited.

After a brief stop in Brussels to switch from the Eurostar to the Thalys train, discovering in the process a lovely health food shop selling Belgian-style gluten free chocolate biscuits, my first major input into the trip was to book a room at the Bazar Rotterdam.

In typical fashion, and without any encouragement from me, the hotel have placed me in one of their 'Africa' rooms, much to the annoyance of my proudly Caribbean girlfriend who doesn't want everyone to put two and two together and get 'African'.

The room is brightly decorated and the bed, set into a recess in the raised floor, is big enough to fit extras - although that's not my kind of holiday! Being used to the arty nature of Witte de Withstraat is perhaps little preparation for the very kitsch nature of the Bazar's accommodation, but after a quick midday nap and watching Streetcrime UK with a Dutch voiceover, the refulgent colour scheme grows on you.

A mid-afternoon shower hits Rotterdam and the streets clear of people and quickly darken. The small glimmers of autumnal light get lost in the raindrops as we walk to Loos on Westplein, opposite Veerhaven.

In amongst the throng of after-work drinkers we find a table adjacent to a reading table where three middle-aged men study every last word in the day's papers. Remembering my faux pas of saying 'ik wil [I want]' instead of the more polite 'mag ik [may I]' last time I was in Loos, I stumble through an order of a bottle of wine and a plate of eyeball-tickling cheese served with mustard.

After an hour or so the rain has lifted slightly, and after a loop around towards the Nieuwe Maas, we walk along a sodden Scheepstimmermanslaan, over the junction to Eendrachtsweg, before turning back up into the trendiness that is Witte de Withstraat. With very little deliberation, we head into Bazar for a massive sharing platter of food before retiring upstairs for sleep.

❦

Ships moored in the Havenmuseum, Rotterdam.

The next morning, the rain has kept itself locked up in the heavens. After the healthy option breakfast of fruits and thick set Turkish yoghurt, we head out walking towards the city centre. With it being a quiet Wednesday morning, the city seems really sleepy, and we eventually start walking in the direction of Erasmusbrug.

The light is cutting through the sky at an angle that is typical for this time of year, resulting in a faint haze filling the air. From beneath the mist appears a range of old working ships moored at the Havenmuseum in Leuvehaven, displaying a good deal of Rotterdam's old maritime history. In the quiet of the morning, only the sounds of two old men tinkering with bits of old engine can be heard.

A walk along the side of Scheepmakershaven brings us to the small Wijnbrug, which is slowly rising to let a small maintenance boat pass by. Passing under the road, but remaining alongside Wijnhaven, eventually we reach Oudehaven.

Here you are momentarily taken away from the spacious modernity of Rotterdam and a fusion of old and new takes place in a small, cosy space similar to parts of Amsterdam. Although, it is worth saying, that the Kubuswoningen [lit: cube houses], give the area the unmistakable feel of Rotterdam.

Later that evening, after getting a call from Ilse, one of the partner teachers from the WMSF-Einstein Lyceum Project, we head over to Charlois at the end of the number 2 tramline. By now the autumnal evening has drawn in and darkness has fallen over the grassy Kromme Zandweg tram stop. In one direction the outline of an illuminated windmoelen; from the other direction, out of the darkness, appear Ilse and her partner Jaap.

We discover that the accommodation that Jaap has arranged for us that evening is in one of his artists’ spaces. In this instance it is a small prefabricated building dating from after World War II, adjacent to the tram stop. The house is one of many lined up in uniform lines like squat little soldiers standing to attention on a military parade.

After dropping our possessions off, and bringing the ancient heater to life, we head out along Boergoensevliet. Jaap, in his distinctly un-Rotterdam accent, tells us about the diversity of people living in Charlois and it reminds me of a more sedate Walthamstow. Turning left onto Wolphaertsbocht, we find the quiet Spanish/Portuguese restaurant called Quinta.

Here, we chat and eat mountain of food. We discuss the differences between rents, work and everyday life in Walthamstow and Charlois, and, although our hosts can be occasionally a little derisory about their area, I feel that I quite like it here. I am also acutely aware of the fact that I fall in love with nearly everywhere I go.

In amongst the courses, we chat to the waitress who is too shy to speak in English. 'Mijn Engels is heel slecht,' she points out. Ilse manages to convince her that the reason my Dutch replies sound so strange is because I’m really only fluent in Afrikaans and therefore my grammar is different.

This sets the tone for the rest of the night as we are joined by two of Ilse and Jaap’s friends, and, after paying the bill and confessing about not being an Afrikaner, we head round the corner for a little more wine and conversation until late.

❦

Rotterdam, simply put, is perhaps never going to match Venice or Paris as a holiday destination, but for a short break it is a great little getaway. Furthermore, if you are desperately in need of expanding your Dutch vocabulary and testing it out on unwitting members of the public, it’s the perfect environment in which to do so, made all the better by great company.

Thinking back, now I realise that I just need to convince my new boss to let me bring a group of Year 11s here in 2015.

Saturday, November 08, 2014

Being on holiday on a Caribbean island for four weeks provides ample time for getting some reading in. Anse des Sables in Saint Lucia provided a great backdrop for reading about one man’s manipulation of Le Tour de France for so many years.

In Seven Deadly Sins: My Pursuit of Lance Armstrong, David Walsh introduces us to the depths of Lance Armstrong’s cheating in various races and chiefly his record-breaking seven Tour de France wins. Furthermore, he demonstrates that despite Armstrong’s name becoming synonymous with cheating in cycling recently, he cheated with plenty of help from others.

Seven Deadly Sins is as much the story of Walsh as it is of Armstrong’s deception, especially as the two stories seemingly become more enmeshed as time goes on.

The book doesn’t just take aim at Armstrong; Irish cycling heros Sean Kelly and Stephan Roche also come in for criticism. Walsh talks about the rattling of pills in the back pocket of Kelly’s jersey in his early days as a sports writers and purposefully downplaying the incident as he’d been hired as Kelly’s biographer.

What plays out in the book is a complex chess game between a number of protagonists and antagonists. Walsh, Pierre Ballester, disgruntled former members of the US Postal team and an increasingly small number of journalists on one side, and the might of Armstrong, his collaborators and the believers of his miracle comeback on the other side.

Cue countless tales of lawsuits, threats, clandestine meetings and the majority of the sporting world deceived. It is testament to Walsh’s bloody-mindedness that he didn’t give up the chase and even managed to find time to challenge Roche’s ‘cleanliness’ as a former Grand Tour winner.

Ultimately, we know how this story ends; in a pretty unapologetic interview conducted by Oprah Winfrey in which Armstrong’s primary defence seems to be that, ‘well, everyone else was at it, but we just did it better.’

Well worth a read for cycling fanatics, people who love a little real-life sporting drama, or those who love investigative journalism. One thing's for sure, Walsh is a good writer and is able to tell what could be quite a dry tale in a very exciting way.

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

The best thing about road cycling as a pastime is that you can literally put a pin into a map and cycle to most places - within obvious limitations.

I had little else to do on warm but hazy Saturday 17th May and so I decided I was going to ride to a 'beach' somewhere towards the Thames estuary. It was a month or two after returning from Uganda and I hadn't done any 'big rides' since riding overnight from Walthamstow to Warwick in March.

The conditions were: as I was riding alone, I needed ready access to a station should I have a breakdown; there had to be something of at least mediocre interest at my destination; and that I should be able to cycle there primarily on B roads.

Sasha, the radar station and the marshy foreshore in East Tilbury.

As things turned out, with the magic of Strava and Garmin, I ended up in East Tilbury, Essex. Granted, the village is pretty with a few pubs, and plenty of clapboard buildings, but the highlight was Coalhouse Fort and an old radar installation down on the shoreline.

The fort, in its current incarnation, was built as paranoia over a potential invasion from the French was reaching new levels in the government. It also played a role during both World Wars before closing in the 1950s. Now it is run by volunteers and sits at the end of a surprisingly pretty riverside path which heads towards Grays.

One word of warning though. As I was down on the beach with Sasha, my Specialized Allez, watching a large ship go by, I thought all was calm. Around two minutes later, however, the bow-wave from the ship finally reached the shore, and the water quickly became ferocious. Fortunately, only one water bottle was lost in the watery escapade.

Saturday, September 27, 2014

Quiet before/after the storm: A morning stroll around Veerhaven, Rotterdam.

The clock is ticking. The airport transfer bus is clearly not going to arrive. The students are beginning to suspect that something is amiss. What do you do? You call the first four taxis you can… so what if one of them is a six-door funeral limousine.

It is Sunday 16th February and we’re racing to Amsterdam Schipol, spread across four cars, all for €150 a go. It was just last night that I was considering how well we’d done to come in nearly €600 under budget for the trip.

The previous evening, in my efforts to ensure that the students who hadn’t broken curfew were rewarded for their good behaviour, I not only allowed them to go all out on food, but took some of them on the water taxi across the Nieuwe Maas.

The Kop van Zuid being as quiet as it is on a Sunday night and as self-contained as it is, meant that it was perfect for a post-dinner evening stroll, admiring the multitudinous lights reflecting on the calm surface of the Rijnhaven. For every drop of silence, the students were more than able to make up for it in volume.

Pia, dreading the prospect of the walk back from the opposite bank of the river, has retired to bed, evidently still traumatised by the alleged drunken passenger experience on the rail replacement bus earlier in Gouda.

As we finish walking past the wine bars, the four students, none of whom have ever drank alcohol, stare in through the large glass windows, puzzled by the attraction of spending your time and money on such things. I don’t really offer much by way of explantion, and leave them to their own musings on the subject.

When we reach the small riverside area opposite Wilheminaplein tram stop, the students stop to take pictures. Out of nowhere, a woman declaring herself to be a half-Dutch and half-Italian artist stops and asks to take our picture. Curiously she also starts talking about eggs, before getting rather stroppy when the request for a photograph is politely declined by the students.

Following her surly departure, the students, with the exception of the Dutch-Somali girl, moan all of the way over Erasmusbrug, declaring that they thought I was going to allow our artist friend to abduct them and hold them hostage. Such active imaginations.

We arrive back to the hostel to discover that World War III has broken out between The Couple and The Twins. It is clear that sometimes on school trips, three days is the limit that most students can tolerate each other for. After wading my way through the expletive-laden prelude to the story, I am still really none the wiser about the cause of the strife. With everyone awake, except for the miraculous sleeping Georgian girl and Pia, there is a risk that everyone will get involved and wind the situation up.

There is clearly only one thing for it: the guitar.

After about an hour, in which most of the belligerents and their allies have had their truth and reconciliation discussion in the privacy of one of the dorms, with both parties agreeing to disagree, but also to shut up and give everyone a bit of peace, the majority of the students congregate in the communal kitchen.

The Nigerian boy brings down his laptop to look up guitar chords and lyrics. Others make tea. Some are in PJs and others looking like they’re heading out clubbing. In no time at all the group are singing, shouting and forgetting any of the issues from earlier.

From time to time other guests from the hostel come and marvel at the sight of this diverse group of youngsters singing like there’s no tomorrow, all drunk on nothing more than herbal tea and Chocomel. Some guests join in and others make a cheese sandwich and make for the exit pretty sharpish.

Punctuating the singing with funny stories and reflections of the past few days, the time runs quickly by. The teacher in me decides that at 4am the party needs to be broken up, although the teenager within has been happy to let the students have their fun.

❦

The next morning, Sunday morning, there is a very slow start to the day. Unaware of the panicked dash for the airport that is yet to come later this afternoon, I wander around Veerhaven before breakfast.

As one by one the students trickle down the stairs and into the common room, something hits me – and it’s not Pia for a change.

Even though I’ve not filled in any application forms as yet, I know that in my heart of hearts I won’t be these students’ teacher next year. Some will have left to start University, but I am sure that I will have left as well.

The only question is whether I’ll still be Hammersmith and Fulham, or whether I will have moved to a school in East London. One thing that is definite though is that, for now, from hijabis gone wild to Julian's dancing, Jas' late night arrival and Pia's fictional acrobatics, one of the most enjoyable chapters of my career so far has come to an end.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Westersingel: one direct road to the station and easy to get lost on... apparently.

The wonderful thing about Rotterdam is that so much of the city centre, from the Nieuwe Maas to Centraal station, and beyond, is built on a grid system. This, to most mortals, makes navigating the streets a breeze, but to students?

It is Saturday 15th April, the sun is shining and feels warm, but we’re all waiting on a street corner. Amazingly, in the half a mile walk from Albert Heijn by the Vaasteland tram stop to Rotterdam Centraal, The Couple have gone missing – building on the curfew-breaking performance of the previous evening.

In my inimitable style, and channelling my inner Julian, I am remaining calm about things. I attempt to call both halves of The Couple, but to no avail. I’ll be honest, although it destroys my idealised version of Rotterdam being permanently covered in snow, I am enjoying the sunshine.

Unfortunately, Pia isn’t quite as polite about the situation. The fuse was lit following the reporting of last night’s curfew breaking at breakfast time. The fuse had half burned as a result of being invited to walk to Centraal station, rather then getting The Twins' favourite #7 tram. This disappearing act by The Couple has tipped her over the edge.

Before her string of [mild] expletives threatens to get the sixteen survivors of the walk arrested for the Dutch equivalent of a Section 5 public order offence, I hand over the train tickets to her and ask the Eritrean and Grenadian to escort her on to the next train to Amsterdam. I ring ahead and let Kevin and Dennis know that Pia is arriving in thirty minutes and to have a fire extinguisher at hand – failing that a coffee will do.

I get a #7 tram back in the general direction of Hostel Room. As I near the Witte de Withstraat stop my phone rings. It’s The Couple. Managing to sustain my sunny disposition I tell them to wait there, using my journey to plot something harsh and evil to say, but I don’t have it in me.

When I find them, their version of events seems to hinge firstly on taking too long in Albert Heijn, not realising that everyone was wandering in the general direction of the main station. They then seem to have gone underground at Eendrachtsplein, realised they don’t know how to buy a ticket, so walked to the Beurs Metro station, and then back to Eendrachstplein once more for good measure, before finally returning to the hostel.

We eventually end up catching a train one hour after the rest of the group and when we arrive in Amsterdam, the rest of the group have gone hunting for lunch and ended up at KFC... as usual. Pia has given them all the slip and headed to ‘t Nieuwe Kafé on Dam Square.

After her second koffie it is clear that Pia’s blood pressure has returned to normal. She disappears off in search of plants of a legal variety, the curfew breakers head off towards the shops, the Twins head off to presumably ride on a few trams, and Kevin, Dennis and I lead a small group for a ‘cultural walking tour.’

We head along Damstraat, crossing one canal, before turning left onto Oudezijds Achterburgwal, passing a number of dens of ill repute – in my students’ eyes at least. As ever, the realities of the sex trade and the cannabis cafés, or ‘coffee shops’, come as a shock when compared with the myths that surround both aspects of Amsterdam life in the eyes of your average British 17-year-old.

Our group of students, consisting of some of the better-behaved students, huddle closely together as we pass women in the windows. As we cross onto Molensteeg and head along Zeedijk towards the Nieuwmarkt, they want to stop and talk. As a group of young females it is hard for them to understand why it is that a sex trade of any sorts can actually be allowed to happen so openly. Kevin and Dennis explain a little about how, with it being regulated the way it is, at least it appears to be superficially safer, however much they may agree with the girls’ sentiments.

Reclining on an afternoon boat ride in Amsterdam.

We continue away from the red light district and towards Waterloopleinmarkt. It is a classified by FourSquare as a flea market and is full of interesting artefacts and trinkets, from swords, to cameras, to clothes. Kevin, Dennis and I can only stand back and watch as the girls look at and scrutinise every stall, engage every stallholder in conversation and start throwing their Euros around.

With stomachs beginning to rumble once more, we stop off for some vlaamse frite on our way back to Dam Square where we meet Pia in possession of some Class A tulip bulbs for her mother.

When the group is together once more, we go on a boat tour of the canals. The students are clearly suffering after last night’s antics and take the opportunity to sleep for the vast majority of the trip – much to the delight of the other customers who seemed unimpressed with our loud arrival on the 5pm sailing.

Dinner is booked for 9pm at the Indian restaurant, Lulu, next door to our hostel, so Pia and I decide we should get going as soon as our tour is over, much to the dismay of The Couple who want to go shopping. We stop, look at each other, shake our heads and turn towards the station.

It transpires that this decision to leave straight away was wise. After realising that our tickets are only valid on the slow train, and after some dancing from platform to platform, we board the double-decker train, only for it to terminate some 25 minutes later in nowheresville.

With my Dutch being tested to the limit, I just about work out that there are engineering works, but have no idea what to do next. Luckily for all of us, some of our Muslim girls have struck up a conversation with a Dutch hijabi who guides us in the vague direction of a rail replacement bus. At this point I get separated from the rest of the group and onto a different bus.

When we arrive in Gouda, around twenty minutes later, angry Pia is back. Apparently a racist drunkard has been running amok on their bus, talking about Nazis and the like. Fortunately, Pia is a blue belt in karate and so was able to use some of her special moves to repel his racism, but, in doing so, her sense of humour had taken a massive hit. The students seemed to have found the whole episode rather exciting though.

When we roll into Rotterdam Centraal, hideously late for dinner, I grant The Twins their wish and we all take the tram back towards the hostel. After some careful negotiation, the restaurateur lets us in, by this time an hour late for our booking, but has to split us over three tables.

I look at our remaining money for the trip. Our finances are looking good and so we go all out for dinner, diving into three courses of excellent food at Lulu and the party is only just getting started.

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Once more the summer James Bond novel tradition is resurrected. This year, with the beaches of the Asturias and Cantabria regions of Spain as my backdrop, and the promise of chorizo and sidra in the evenings to come, I set about readingDoctor No (1958) by Ian Fleming – the sixth novel in the Bond series.

At the end of the previous novel, From Russia With Love, we are left with a serious doubt about whether Bond has survived. Having brought about the demise of SMERSH’s latest plot, he is poisoned and the reader is unsure about what will have become of him.

Obviously, he survives thanks to some quick thinking and good luck. As part of his recuperation a slightly grumpy M decides that the warm climes of Jamaica will suit Bond where he is to clear up the small mystery of a couple of Secret Service operatives seemingly eloping and abandoning their station. Added to this is a fire at a bird reserve on Crab Key, an island off the Jamaican mainland, which an American pressure group seems keen to have investigated.

Bond is convinced he’s ready for real action, but goes along with M’s decision sensing there may be more to these stories, even if it does mean having to ditch his beloved Baretta gun in favour of something new.

From the instant that Bond gets close to Jamaica, Fleming’s ability to evoke the region shines through. The references to sea grapes, soursop, bougainvillea, and star-apples help to furnish the scenery in addition to more detailed description:

“Bond watched the big green turtle-backed island grow on the horizon and the water below him turn from the dark blue of the Cuba Deep to the azure if the inshore shoals… The scattered dice of small-holdings showed on the slopes and in the clearings in the jungle, and the setting sun flashed gold on the bright worms of tumbling rivers and streams… Bond’s heart lifted with the beauty of one of the most fertile islands in the world.”

Upon arrival he is met by Quarrel, a Cayman Islander who had first appeared in Live and Let Die and a somewhat suspicious female paparazzo from the local newspaper. The same paparazzo, Annabel Chung, appears later that evening as Bond is picking Quarrel’s brains over the mysterious Crab Key island and its owner Dr No. Taking no chances they choose to interrogate her, but get very little information – something that serves only to heighten their suspicions about Dr No and the disappearance of the Secret Service operatives.

Bond and Quarrel resolve to escape Kingston and head to the more remote Beau Desert plantation in order to train and plan a night time voyage to Crab Key. Initially they plan just to do a brief recon of the island, but find themselves getting drawn into things much quicker than expected following the arrival of one of the most famous Bond girls, Honeychile Rider. Her arrival is one of the more memorable moments of the film adaptation when the beautiful Ursula Andress emerges from the sea with a knife in her bikini - although Honey is naked in the novel.

Needless to say, her arrival, along with Bond and Quarrel's, has been spotted and it's only a matter of time before Dr No’s mixed race Chinese and black henchmen are after them.

Reading Doctor No on the beach in Santander, Spain.

Having visited the Caribbean for the first time last year, to the small island of Saint Lucia in the Windward Islands, reading this book definitely brought back elements of that tropical island landscape, even if culturally the Jamaica of Doctor No and modern day Saint Lucia are culturally and socially rather distinct from one another.

At times I wish that Bond would hang about on the beach a bit more, or take a walk through the dense forest, or even take a boat out to a reef by daylight, just so that Fleming can continue to describe the scenery of his second home with the passion he does.

That aside, the plot pushes the boundaries of what is sensible at times, as all of the Bond Novels do, but perhaps to a greater extent here. The action seems so plausible until we reach Dr No’s lair, deep underground on Crab Key.

Added to this, a modern reader will be troubled by references to ‘chigroes’ (a portmanteau of Chinese and negro) and ‘niggerheads’ (I think a partially submerged dark rock under the surface of the water) whilst reading. Such ignorant language could easily detract from the skills of an author who is clearly much more gifted with language that such expressions would seem to imply.

Simon Winder, author of The Man Who Saved Britain: A Personal Journey into the Disturbing World of James Bond, and who also contributes the introduction to the Penguin edition, says it so well:

“Dr No is definitely Fleming at his peak, even when he turns silly, and Dr No is perhaps his most attractively crazy villain. It is probably also the only novel in any language where the hero’s penis is directly threatened not just by a centipede’s jaws, but by a giant squid’s tenticle too. Fifty years after it was written it remains – even with all its racism, snobbery and chaotic plotting – a book that can read over and over again with immense pleasure.”

I’m inclined to agree with Winder. Bond seems at his best towards the end of the novel, even if Fleming’s plot choices aren’t, but overall Doctor No is well up there with action of the preceding novels.

Saturday, July 26, 2014

A few years back, my father went through a phase of reading a newspaper that was giving away free DVDs. For a few weekends the DVDs were all old Alfred Hitchcock films, and included the original 1935 version of ‘The 39 Steps’ starring Robert Donat and Madeleine Carroll. I decided to get my hands on a copy of the novel on which the film was based.

Following on from my trend of reading James Bond novels, The 39 Steps by John Buchan is, in many ways, a precursor to those novels. The flipping between fast-paced action and moments of tension, all set against a backdrop of espionage and counter-espionage, is very reminiscent of The Cold War world of Ian Fleming’s character.

The novel follows Richard Hannay, a man living in London, struggling to get into the rhythm of life there after having been based in Rhodesia for a period of time.

The action starts when Hannay is approached by an American gentleman, later identifying himself as Franklin P. Scudder, who states that there is a conspiracy to assassinate Karolides, the Greek premier, during an upcoming visit to London. He also reveals a plot by a German spy ring called Black Stone who intend to steal military information prior to the outbreak of war in Europe.

Hannay offers to hide Scudder in his flat, but to little avail. Scudder is murdered, and, fearing for his own life, Hannay decides to escape for remotest Scotland. So with “a well-used tweed suit, a pair of strong nailed boots, and a flannel shirt with a collar,” along with “fifty pounds … in sovereigns in a belt which [he] had brought back from Rhodesia” and Scudders pocket-book filled with notes and cipher, he heads to London St Pancras, having consulted his Bradshaw’s Guide.

Needless to say, his attempts to evade the attention of the malevolent German spy ring fail and both the local police and a German plane pursue him – the most familiar features of the story for lovers of the early Hitchcock film adaptation.

This story, in the same manner as Ian Fleming’s bond series around thirty years later, is wildly fantastical at times, but the author describes it in his dedication as a “shocker” – “the romance where the incidents defy the probabilities, and march just inside the borders of the possible.”

Probabilities aside, the plot is excellently thought-out and the writing so exact and direct that you never get a sense that he is padding out the novel. Furthermore, Hannay is a very old school hero – a gentleman, educated and well travelled – and is actually likeable in a way that sometimes James Bond could only dream of being, despite the occasional similarities between them.

Published during 1915, when the First World War was still young, the novel was said to have been appreciated by soldiers in the trenches with one officer writing to Buchan stating: “The story is greatly appreciated in the midst of mud and rain and shells, and all that could make trench life depressing.”

Overall, this novel is worth a read. Those who have watched the films will see some similarities, but may also appreciate the more serious nature of the original Hannay compared to Hitchcock’s more comedic interpretation.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Red lights shining off the wet surface on Scheepstimmermanslaan, Rotterdam.

As the dusky light descends over Rotterdam, I am woken from my late afternoon slumber by squally rain hammering against the small window pane of the droom room. When I look out of the window a little while later, the darkened city streets have been laced with rain, there smooth surfaces reflecting the lights like a perfect mirror glass.

It is still Friday 14th February 2014 and we’re preparing to go out for our evening meal. After yesterday’s stamppot, we’ve opted for the slightly more popular idea of heading to the Bazar on Witte de Withstraat for a meaty halal feast beneath the beautiful Middle Eastern light fittings.

We stroll along the rain soaked streets with the student group representing every possible point on the spectrums of both happiness and excitement. Pia is also being a bit on the slow side. Having moved out of the Maritime Hotel this afternoon and into the Love room at the hostel, she has clearly been sleeping deeply for three hours, despite me not even making her walk for miles this year.

We arrive at Bazar and get directed downstairs to the basement for the first time ever. The rationale is simple; it is Valentine’s Day and the management don’t want our posse ruining the many romantic meals taking place around the building. I can’t really blame them as a thousand cameras and iPhones emerge from pockets and the ubiquitous ‘I’m at a restaurant with my friends’ selfies start getting taken. The noise is phenomenal and at times unbearable – heads turn, and with a look of resignation, turn back.

After the meal we dismiss the group and set a curfew, ground rules, a perimeter and one group, made up of a Nigerian boy, a Somali boy, the Triplets (three girls who seem inseparable) and the Couple dart out of the door quickly. The six of them are dressed like the cast from either Saturday Night Fever or maybe just some 1970s B-movie. Its all white jackets, big lapels, leather and roll-necks. The Twins make their excuses and go tram-spotting or memorising the routes somewhere.

One group of students decides to stay back for Pia and me. After finishing our coffees, we head towards Schiedamsedijk, making a ridiculous amount of noise as we progress past the old working boats in Leuvehaven bobbing in the darkness. We reach Erasmusbrug, take a few more photos and then wander along Willemskade in the direction of the hostel.

On the way I hint to the students, albeit accidentally, that I might leave work this year. The Eritrean, Senegalese and Grenadian all immediately raise objections, saying “But who’s gonna bring us back next year?” I don’t really have an answer for them, but reassure them by telling them that it is not definite – this despite downloading an application form for another school that morning.

After an hour or so of relaxing at the hostel, playing table football, and winding each other up, I decide to do a headcount. Pia, also known as ‘The Incredible Sleeping Woman’, has already hit the hay and I conduct my duties alone. It becomes clear that we are missing our group of Saturday Night Fever impersonators. I keep a vigil at the top of the stairs, watching the comings and goings through the front door with a small gang of students, all of whom seem angrier about the curfew-breaking than I am. Braids are flicked, teeth are kissed, and expletives uttered.

Eventually, around 1am we give up our watch and retire to the kitchen, realising that we’re causing a noisy fire hazard on the stairs. The kitchen is located right at the bottom of the building and is for the communal use of all hostel guests, although we do a pretty good job of colonising it. We talk about anything and everything. It is an opportunity to hear the hopes, dreams and fears the students have about their futures, both in an immediate and longer-term sense.

Bazar: a favourite eatery and a regular on the Rotterdam itinerary.

On a whim, I go and check the boys' room for any sign of the curfew-breakers. Sure enough, as I knock the door, I hear a rustling sound, followed by worried whispering and eventually the Nigerian boy opens the door, revealing a series of six ever-whitening faces.

The story, as it transpires, involved taking a taxi to the ‘Turkish area’ of town (wherever that is), before being caught out by their tram passes expiring at midnight (already after curfew), the girl from the Couple being unable to walk and thus having to be carried home as no taxi would take them (surely an over-dramatisation) and nearly getting into an altercation with a random member of the public (the most likely part of the story).

I go through the usual list of teacher clichés: “disappointment”, “let yourselves down”, and “thought you had more respect for me”. I then leave them to think about what they’ve done and hear the expression “I’ve never seen Tom pissed off before” come from inside the room.

Returning to the kitchen, someone has had the idea to get one of the beaten-up guitars from the lounge area. None of the students can play it and so I take it, playing whatever comes to mind. Songs by Rihanna, Beyoncé and my Ed Sheeran/Passenger-inspired acoustic version of Blackstreet’s ‘No Diggity’ go down well, with everyone singing along as if they were at a drunken session in a small bar.

At two separate points the Somali boy and Nigerian boy come to offer their apologies, with the latter offering a freestyle over ‘No Diggity’ and a can of Chocomel as compensation. The group who kept vigil grudgingly accept the apology on my behalf as I continue playing.

At around 3am I decide to pull the plug, suggesting that everyone gets an early night – a bit of a contradiction at 3am. Tomorrow morning we head to Amsterdam on the train. With a little protestation, the students skulk off to bed, I head back to the droom room and fall sleep within thirty seconds, can of Chocomel in hand.

Friday, June 13, 2014

In the dead of night, moonlit country lanes are nothing more than a grey ribbon floating between the silhouetted branches of trees, tied at each end to orange orbs surrounding sleeping villages and towns. In the dead of night only your bike’s wheels whir as conversation dries up, the Garmin registers one mile intervals with ever decreasing frequency and any rattling sound goes increasingly unnoticed.

When you have undertaken a sponsored ride, like London to Brighton, in order to raise money for your students you realise that, in order to get money again, you have to try something bigger the following year. So it was, inspired by the feat of four Dutch riders, I decided on a simple concept: ride from my current home in Walthamstow, London to my hometown of Warwick on a Saturday in March, in one go, overnight, starting at 10pm and arriving in time for breakfast.

Two lights, two bidons, waiting for departure at 10pm in Walthamstow, London.

The response was overwhelming. Not only was enough money raised to help two deserving west London students take part in the college's visit to Uganda, but enough money was also raised to pay sponsorship for a couple of Ugandan students through the charity All Our Children. There was no going back now.

Armed with as many bicycle lights as possible, a backpack full of food, bidons of electrolyte drink, additional layers of clothing, spares, multi-tools and the route pre-loaded onto our Garmin GPS devices, we headed out of Walthamstow along the Lea Bridge Road, navigating the traffic around Clapton and Finsbury Park, ascending Crouch Hill and onto the Archway Road.

At this point, humanity is a strange blur of orange streetlights, red brake lights, white headlights, girls in short skirts and heels, men in their new shirts from River Island, all sinuously moving around me and my long-suffering cycling buddy Jonesy as we moved through Finchley and Barnet. The passing-by of cars at speed is the primary soundtrack between moments of ludicrous singing and chit-chat.

After Barnet, our route takes us down a dark road before reaching a footbridge that lifts us over the A1 Barnet by-pass and suddenly civilisation deserts us at 27km into our ride. Heading up Holmshill Lane, lights cutting weakly through the darkness ahead, I look back to see central London and what looks like the BT Tower – all just a bubble of light in the distance.

Looking forward once more is the reality of the night ahead; a night of weaving through gently undulating country lanes, lit intermittently by the bright moon in the clear March sky.

There is no doubt that the moment you leave the ‘pollution bubble’ of London, the temperature plummets. Every effort up the smallest of climbs is met with a cloud of warm vapour rushing from your mouth with every exhalation of breath on the way into Shenley and then London Colney.

Reaching St Albans around midnight means we are greeted by zig-zagging students, revellers and pensioners making their ways from the pub to home, or from bar to club, or maybe just in search of a kebab shop. Despite their noise, and our incongruity to the rest of the surrounding nightlife, we continue on, kicked out of St Albans at speed and out into the blackness of night once more.

No glamour: At the side of a roundabout near Buckingham at around 3am.

There are no cars now and there is none of the traffic of life. The climbs around the edge of the Chilterns, with their views over towards Luton, are conducted in silence. Legs are hurting by now and there is the need to refuel at some point after another terrifying and chilly decent down a hill into the murkiness, with every dip in the road unsighted and the awful scratching sound of Sasha’s rear wheel bearings becoming louder and louder, despite another service at Caballo earlier that week – once more the mechanic trying his best to resuscitate the damaged rear wheel.

In the near silence, the Garmin GPS device seems to fall silent and stay static. A strange mania rises up in my mind between the hours of 2am and 3am whereby, every time I look down to see the miles covered and the miles remaining, the distance seems not to have moved foward at all. At first this is just mildly concerning, but eventually I begin pressing the scroll button just to check that the battery is still alive.

After a pause on the edge of Buckingham, resting at the side of a roundabout on the bypass, I give myself a silent rebuke for my stupidity and continue on, resolving not to look at my Garmin except on the approach to a road junction to avoid getting lost.

Destroyed: Jonesy looking distressed at the roadside in Buckinghamshire.

Jonesy is a broken man. The endless miles of metronomically tapping out a rhythm on the pedals in the cold of the night have left him almost for dead psychologically. Whereas my demons concern a fear of my chain snapping or of a GPS unit that counts backwards, Jonesy’s demons revolve around hydration and warmth.

Around seven and half hours in, the sky has begun to lighten and over the barren fields the sun is threatening to come up. By the time of reaching the small village of Cropredy, it is peering over the hedgerows as the road starts to climb higher for one last time, building up to the beacon at Burton Dassett with eventually the sunlight flooding across the flat Warwickshire countryside in front of us. The end is literally in sight.

After a small amount of rolling along flat country lanes, overtaking tractors taking hay to the fields for livestock and waving to sensible cyclists emerging for a morning ride, we reach Royal Leamington Spa and then Warwick. We're out of liquid, out of energy gels and glad to back on home turf.

A reward: Sun rising on the approach to Burton Dassett.

Jones is too far gone for any breakfast and limps off to his aunt’s. I ride flat out for the last half a mile, using every last bit of remaining energy to reach my parents’ house where the food is already cooking.

Whilst waiting for breakfast my father tries to show me photos of a recent trip to Malta, but I am completely unable to provide any meaningful response. I eat. I sleep. I eat again. And then I sleep again safe in the knowledge that at least in the dead of this night I won't be rattling down a rural road for eight hours.

Friday, June 06, 2014

You can say many things about Rotterdam. People often go along with unfavourable references to the city, commenting on it being rather nothingy. Naturally, I don’t feel this way about what, to me, is a beautiful city.

It is Friday 14th February 2014 and I’m knocking on the doors of all the students' dorms, trying to make sure that they all actually eat before we hit the rails, due for Einstein Lyceum.

Slowly, looking a little like moles that have had bright lights shined into their eyes after a year of being underground, the students trickle into the dining room. First down is the Georgian girl who, despite more sleep than everyone, seems to still be asleep. In time more come down, The Twins, an Eritrean girl and the Grenadian, along with our fictional friend Sharkeisha. Then something strange happens. The faint scent of bakhoor nasaem floats in on the breeze and a noise sounding like ‘buff, buff, buff’ echoes down the halls; our Senegalese girl is awake.

Thankfully, breakfast goes down a lot better than the stamppot from the night before and after a brief search for a pair of students who seem to like avoiding direct contact with clocks, we wander towards Eendrachtsplein Metro station. All the way I have The Twins, one either side of me, informing how it could all be so much quicker if we just got the number 7 tram. I ask whether they’ve visited Rotterdam before. They reply that they haven’t. We leave it at that.

This year, we’ve been told by Kevin to meet him and Yvonne at the new school building. It is still in Hoogvliet-Zuid, but means getting off a stop later in Zalmplaat – which must be a ‘false friend’ as I’m sure that it translates as ‘Salmon Plate’ if taken literally.

After rattling for twenty minutes through the Rotterdam suburbs, over docks, roads and railways, the C-line metro train pulls in Zalmplaat. To one side it looks exactly like one stop back up the track at Hoogvliet, but looking round the other way we see a swathe of new silver and glass buildings, mainly empty, waiting for students to arrive.

We are met by Kevin who takes into one of the buildings. The room is expansive and no amount of tea or biscuits can make the place seem full. We are greeted inside by some familiar faces from the Einstein Lyceum trip to London earlier in the year - Melanie, Ryan and Renske amongst others.

Despite the final fitting of the rooms being incomplete, and at this time it being few months away from classes switching from the old building to this new building, my students are instantly envious of the fresh look, the floor to ceiling windows, and the light, roomy interior. The building is part of the Campus Hoogvliet project that will see a range of educational establishments move into different buildings on the new campus, along with housing for youngsters and other new commercial properties.

Almost as inspiring as the leaf-detail frosting on the windows, the green Perspex banisters and the smell of fresh paint is the artwork commissioned for the interior; modern and colourful interpretations of well-known figures such as Barack Obama. I am assuming that the picture of Nicki Minaj I saw last year won’t be making the final cut though.

Campus Hoogvliet is very similar in style to the buildings in central Rotterdam; the palaces of glass and steel. As it is, at present, these new buildings rise up out of the surrounding houses in a somewhat incongruous fashion; too shiny and new compared to the small blocks of flats and rows of neat little houses.

Following some lunch and some traditional Dutch games organised by Kevin at the old Einstein Lyceum school site, we divide the London and Rotterdam students into mixed groups for a filming project and head for the Metro. Each group has a different focus: people, place, history, movement or art. As the Metro rattles along, we deposit different groups at different stations: Wilhelminaplein for place, Leuvenhaven for history and art, Beurs for people, Rotterdam Centraal for movement.

Pia, clearly excited by the prospect of being outdoors makes the decision that really the students should be doing the task independently. After looking both ways, in case there's a dive-bombing cyclist coming, she jumps over the cycle path, runs through two lanes of traffic, takes a bite of gouda, rolls over the bonnet of a passing Mercedes landing on the pavement, then leaps through the door of Wijnbar Het Eigendom, blackflips down the stairs and orders coffee for the teachers.

Taking the more orthodox approach to visiting a bar, Kevin, Yvonne and I chose to walk at a normal pace – Pia always was so dramatic. Either way, it gives us the chance to have a chat and discuss life in peace for a few… ‘ring ring’. It doesn’t take long before the phone starts ringing with tales of a student going back to the hostel alone.

After identifying the culprit’s whereabouts, we continue our conversation and… ‘ring ring’. This is going to be a long afternoon.

Eventually, the phones fall silent. It’s interesting to hear how quickly things are changing at Einstein Lyceum. New staff and new buildings and new hopes for the future. Am I envious? Possibly. I could see myself teaching in Rotterdam, living on the Noordereiland or in Katendrecht and cycling around town with a basket on my bicycle.

After parting ways in the slightly murky late afternoon weather, Pia and I head back to the hostel to do a headcount and rest before the evening meal, and Kevin accompanies Yvonne back towards Hooglvliet.

Sunday, May 11, 2014

Sleep: Something that can often be in short supply on a college trip to The Netherlands.

One joy of teaching is that literally nothing stays the same for a long period of time. Even if you take charge of a group for a few years they change so much over the course of two years that the young adults you wave goodbye to are almost unrecognisable.

It is Thursday 13th February 2014 and I’m sat in my room – named ‘Droom’ [trans: ‘dream’] – on the third floor of Hostel Room on Vollenhovenstraat in Rotterdam. After two years at the Home Hotel we’ve finally decided to try somewhere else to take our group of students.

This year’s group of students easily matches the diversity of the previous years’ visits and we have representatives of Somali, Dutch, Eritrean, Pakistani, Afghan, Nigerian, Grenadian, Senegalese and Georgian extraction, along with a fictitious girl everyone calls Sharkeisha. As with previous years, I am accompanied by Pia, whose attendance, I concluded prior to departure, was safer than the alternatives.

Our journey started at silly o’clock in the morning, but not stupid o’clock like last year. Everything went reasonably smoothly at the airport, give or take the last-minute signing-up for the frequent flyer programme to get free luggage allowance meaning a rather angry French member of staff nearly had a melt down. In fact things were so smooth we nearly forgot that one boy hadn’t even arrived at the airport.

A short hop over the North Sea later and we were already driving along the A4 towards Rotterdam. Here, trying to be efficient, I decide to sort out the sleeping arrangements for the dorms – who will be with whom in which dorms.

Before my bright pink pen has even had the chance to touch the paper, I have an audience. Two eagle-eyed Eritrean girls – we’ll call them ‘The Twins’ for reasons I’ll explain later – are watching every twitch in my hand, trying to read my thoughts. Despite the pressure, I put down my initial thoughts. After ten seconds there is an objection.

Pia, wading into the discussion offers her ideas on the subject. A few moments later another Eritrean girl and a Somali girl join in. I’m struggling to regain my authority as Sharkeisha jumps into the situation. Before I realise it, we have something akin to diplomatic conference taking place.

It makes sense though. There are thirteen girls and just three boys and clearly my knowledge of the most current friendship groups and cliques is a little out of date.

Waiting to cross Van Oldenbarneveltplaats, Rotterdam. Taken by Pia.

Hostel Room itself isn’t very far from our old base at 59a Witte De Withstraat, but is in a much quieter part of the city. It's opposite Veerhaven, a mooring point for small private yachts and just around the corner from a good café called Loos. For the students there is little in the way of any of the infamous distractions nearby – there’s just a supermarket where some students have their first experience of Dutch checkout assistants [we’ll say no more than this].

Things are going well with checking in until the hotel manager says, “but there is one room that is wet.”

“Wet?” I ask, presuming that their has been some form of flood.

“Yes! The floor is wet and so she [Pia] will have to sleep somewhere else.”

Naturally the thought of having to deal with thirteen female students without female back-up fills me with dread. As I stand there, images flash through my mind: hair extensions and hijabs flying everywhere; screaming and high-pitched giggling penetrating the walls; painting the boys’ nails whilst they're asleep.

“… Is that okay?” The manager asks, waking me from my nightmare. “We have booked her into the Maritime Hotel just around the corner.” Relief floods my body at the realisation that if it all kicks off, Pia is on the next street and it’ll only be for one night.

“Yes. That’s absolutely fine.” Pia responds for me.

Later that evening, we decide to get dinner from the Hostel as it’s their 'meal and a drink for €5 night'. They offer to make a halal version of the Dutch dish stamppot – a mixture of sausages, bacon, potato, spinach and the like. As it turns out, to make it Muslim-friendly for my students, a boiled egg has replaced the sausage and bacon.

The strompot is not universally popular and just a few brave souls attempt it – myself being one of them.

The main complaint seems to have been a lack of seasoning, but I am aware that the main reason is that a McDonalds was spotted on the walk around town earlier and some students are plotting a return. Pia and I acquiesce to let them out and head to Wijnbar Het Eigendom on Witte de Withstraat for a bit of peace from the strompot conversation.

After dissecting last year’s visit, and comparing the characters on the trip this year to those of the past, we head in the vague direction of Willemskade to drop Pia off at the Maritime Hotel. The air is milder than usual and it’s a relief considering London teenagers’ aversion to fresh air.

With a busy day ahead tomorrow, I suggest to the students back at Hostel Room that they retire to their rooms to ‘slaap lekker’, knowing fully that they’ll all likely be up until 2am, at least.

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Upon leaving the first feed station in Godshill, we head out along the Southampton Road. Here, the landscape is much more agricultural and fields seem to head off into the distance over the well-kept hedgerows. A little top-up of air in the new Specialized Roubaix tyres has given my bike a bit of extra zip, especially when combined with the handful of jelly beans I’ve just eaten.

The view looking over the endless heathland with wild horses.

After a mile or so, we take a left onto the narrow Blissford Road and continue rolling along at a sociable 35kmh. We continue onto Abbots Well Road and the landscape begins to change again. Firstly, the neat fields lose their uniform hedges, then the fields turn to open heathland, the road begins to rise a little, before we come to a small switchback that carries the road upwards in a sudden burst.

At the top of the mini-climb we’re greeted by the sight of a dead horse. Jones has started to flag a little on the climbs and with his head down in a determined fashion makes it to the top without even noticing the carcass lying half across the road. “Horse? What horse matey?” is Jones’ only comment on the matter.

After this brief flirtation with the forest, a bit more rolling around the edges is required before we cross over a dried up ford, take a sharp left, and head back into the trees once more. The smooth tarmac and a sudden increase in the number of riders around us encourages us to up the speed and before long we’re really blasting through the countryside, albeit a little wary of any potential dead horses on the road.

Another brief climb and it is clear that Jones is struggling a little, but is more than making up for it when descending and on the flats, returning the favour of my earlier turn on the front nicely.

Now, riding through a forest on an autumnal day is quite a peaceful affair. An occasional conversation with another rider, the sound of the air rushing by or the noise of an animal in a field is the only thing to break the silence.

Suddenly, a cry from a few hundred metres back reverberates along the Bolderwood Arboretum Ornamental Drive (a bit of a moutful). For a moment I wobble as I wonder what it was. Jones has stuck his head down and is going for it. I turn when I hear what sounds like a swarm of severely irritated hornets getting nearer. I shout to Jones to move over just in the nick of time as a small peloton of riders clad in club colours (I think) very similar to those of Team Sky go whirring past in a chorus of noisy freewheels.

Following a brief dip into the outskirts of Brockenhurst, we head back into the countryside and continue on through the forest before arriving at the second feed station.

Bashley to the Finish

In Bashley, Jones is still looking quite spritely, possibly as a result of all of the fig rolls he’s been consuming. I’m generally still feeling quite good and stock up on jelly beans and bananas - being a coeliac the cakes and fig rolls don’t look too appealing to me. Either way, feeling refreshed, we head off.

A few miles along the Sway road, we run into traffic. A melee of riders and cars and vans all seem to be grinding to a halt. After three more miles of slow going we take a left onto a small lane after the village of Sway. We soon realise the cause of the disruption - a tractor pulling a trailer of horse manure.

Some of the braver riders use the, ahem, slipstream of the tractor as it chugs along at 15kph, but I suggest we stay well back having watched one too many episodes of Last of the Summer Wine in my life. To rapturous applause and the collective sigh of relief from the 100 trapped cyclists, the tractor pulls over and the riders jostle themselves back into order. The faster riders disappearing into the distance. The slow riders tootling along looking at the wild animals. The middling riders, like me, ratchet up the pace a little.

We weave along a little, with the occasional event photographer popping up like a meerkat from the bracken, and we get to the B3054; a high and exposed road that rumbles over heathland. Jones starts to tire a little more. I’m getting a fantastic tow off a group of riders riding in formation and get dragged along until I reach Boldre and realise Jones has disappeared.

He eventually catches up and is complaining of cramps in his legs. I try and convince him to get into a harder gear and lower his cadence, but he won’t hear any of it as he gets on his stubborn mountain bike head. A few miles later he comes to a halt and I begin to panic about our overall time. A couple of friendly cyclists stop by to see if he’s okay before departing whilst making sympathetic noises.

We get going again, but it is slow going. I resume my role as super-domestique and provide a tow, but Jones is struggling to hold on to my back wheel even at 20kph. I issue him with a few more energy gels and try and coax him along the road.

Realising we have around twenty minutes until our chances of getting a ‘silver’ time award disappear, Jones digs deep one last time after a frustrating thirty minutes of slow cycling. As we pass a small red brick cottage on a bend on the B3055 Jones comes alive and starts trundling along at a livelier 40kph.

His burst of life over, I resume my place in front and drag him, and a small train of riders, along the Lyndhurst Road. The tarmac comes to an end after the gates to the event venue and we race over the loose dirt track to the finish line, separated by a single second on the timing sheets.

After crossing the line, receiving a medal and contemplating food, we sort ourselves out and head back towards London, stopping at McDonalds on the way. The event was well organised, we were better prepared than the Brighton ride and we’re feeling happy with ourselves.

Our first organised sportive has been a success, and after an anxious wait for the official timing sheets, we find on the Monday that we have done just enough for a silver time on their classification. By a matter of seconds. But then we never do anything the simple way.

Friday, January 03, 2014

Some things in life are certainties. Some things in life are less certain. Some are a combination. You can, for example, be certain that where Mr Jones is concerned, you can never be 100% certain of anything.

In preparation for my first organised cycling event, accompanied by my increasingly cycling-mad friend Jonesy, I had done plenty. I’d been training up and around Epping Forest in all weathers on a route that takes you up three different climbs twice. I had been averaging around 200km a week and had given myself a three-day rest period prior to the Wiggle New Forest 100 on Sunday 6th October.

Bikes loaded and ready for a midnight dash a New Forest Holiday Inn.

As it was, as Jonesy arrived in his gleaming 'pearlescent blue' Audi at 10.30pm in Walthamstow, ready for the drive to our hotel just outside of Southampton the night before our 8.30am start, I could feel the preparation slipping through my fingers.
After around four hours sleep in a reasonably comfortable Holiday Inn, we headed towards New Park Farm on the outskirts of Lyndhurst, stopping off en route for breakfast at McDonalds.

As we neared the event’s starting point, the steady line of cars pulling into the grounds began to play havoc with our collective adrenalines and we began nervously laughing at what we were getting ourselves into. There was time for registration, a quick check of the bikes, a quick read through of all the good luck messages and we headed off to the start line, still laughing like a pair of schoolgirls.

Lyndhurst to Godshill

Finally calm after around twenty minutes of laughing, we finally get towards the front of the queue for the start line. We are penned-in in groups of around twenty to thirty riders and given a quick safety briefing. At this point I must admit I am worried at my lack of practice clipping in and out with my new cycle shoes. Before I have chance to remember what I'm doing, we’re off.

The group snakes out of the grounds slowly and onto the main A337 road northwards. The slow rise of Clay Hill appears and already the riders are beginning to shuffle themselves into varying strength groups. A group of riders with super-expensive equipment flies past, Jonesy moves tentatively up the line of riders, and I get bored with the lot of them and push on, bringing Jonesy and a group of braver riders with me.

Just after Lyndhurst, the first mini-hill arrives by Emery Down. The hill is a small affair akin to Crouch Hill in north London. Jonesy and I go full pelt up the hill with others seemingly taking it a lot easier. Either we’re overdoing it, or they’re being overly cautious.

Sasha in the hazy sunrise, awaiting the start of the sportive.

Hitting 43kmh on the decent, we begin to get the sensation of being on a giant countryside rollercoaster, a series of small undulations keeping the momentum of the riders going.

A little after the village of Bartley, the road slowly starts to climb over the next 7km. Admittedly its not the steepest of inclines with only a few moments where the gradient hits the 5% mark, but given the trouble with any form of incline that Jonesy had in January it is a relief to see him keep up the pace. As we approached the little sting towards the end of Furzley Lane I shoot off, Jonesy not far behind and a fair few of the earlier starters are caught and overtaken.

Then it is out into open moorland for a while. Taking my role as super-domestique seriously, I take the lead, allowing Jonesy a tow, and every so often pass him an energy gel from my supply and bark at him to take it.

The lush greenery along the Roger Penny Way seemed without limits. For a while it is as if we’ve veered off course with very few signs of life except the occasional wild horse. Even after a while there are no towns to blot the view, only occasional cars passing by in the opposite direction, and the occasional club rider overtaking at high speed.

After what seems like only a short period of time, around 30km in, we reach the first feeding station in the village of Godshill. We’re feeling good and feeling like our target of a ‘silver’ time of less than five hours to complete the 111km route is within our reach.

Who is T.S.Ó.Ceallaigh?

His foremost passion in life is being a citizen of the world with a particular focus on partnerships with projects in Uganda, as well as having an interest in learning more about Africa as a whole, different languages of the world and the interpretation of Islam by different cultures.